Like a Martian
by Sk8er Chica
Summary: Tony has a problem and Ziva messes up another idiom. Better than it sounds. Oneshot.


**DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING!**

**A/N: Just an idea that came to me while watching Season 6. Like most fans, I enjoy Ziva's butchering of English expressions and haven't seen this one done before. It's also my first _NCIS _fic. Please be kind and don't forget to read and review :)  
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No matter how long his career in law enforcement might last, there were certain aspects of the job Tony DiNozzo would never get used to, one of which was the way the job screwed with his system. Early on in his tenure with the Baltimore Police Department, the standard of meals per day had dropped from three to two, sometimes just one. Tony had bounced back and forth from graveyard shift to days. This, coupled with the nature of the job itself, made eating at around the same time every day nearly impossible. Since joining NCIS, Tony had steadily worked days (albeit plenty of overtime too), but the damage had been done; his internal clock was so out of whack that he felt like he was living in a fog. He often couldn't figure out whether he was more hungry or tired and he'd started getting migraines.

Finally, Tony could stand it no longer. After his shift ended one night, he went down to the morgue to seek the advice of the medical examiner Dr. Mallard. Ducky was sitting at his desk in the corner, filling out an autopsy report. He looked up when he heard the door open.

"Ah, Anthony," greeted Ducky.

"Hey, Duck," said Tony.

"It's always a pleasure to have a visitor, but this is certainly a surprise. I would have expected that you would be home by now, perhaps watching a film. Is Jethro keeping you late again?"

"No. I just had somethin' to ask you."

"Pertaining to which case?" asked Ducky, reaching for his notes.

"Well, it's not exactly a case. I just haven't been feeling so hot lately and I was hoping you might know what's wrong with me."

"I'm a medical examiner, dear boy, but I should be able to remember enough from my schooling to provide a rudimentary diagnosis," said Ducky. He pulled a pad of paper and pen towards him. "What symptoms have you been experiencing?" he questioned, preparing to write them down.

"I'm tired, not all the time, though, just most of it. I'm starving all the time and I've been getting these splitting headaches." Tony explained.

"I see." murmured Ducky. "And how would you rate the pain?"

"It's not so much pain as feeling like that Nazi in _Raiders of the Lost Ark _must've felt when his head was melting. But popping a couple Excedrin does the trick."

"Does eating work to resolve your headaches as well?"

Tony nodded.

"And how long have you been experiencing these symptoms?"

Tony thought about it. "Well, it started way back when I was in Baltimore. Stopped for a while, then came back...ballparking it, I'd say about three months ago, maybe four."

Ducky went quiet for a few minutes, scribbling things down and frowning at the legal pad. At last, he spoke again.

"It's difficult to ascertain this without further testing and blood work, but it seems as though you might be experiencing some type of hypoglycemia. I experienced similar symptoms while I was in medical school. I would stay up studying through all hours of the night, becoming so absorbed that I would forget to eat. I remember laying my head down for a nap one day in my basic physiology course and waking up hours later in an advanced neurology lecture. I, of course, didn't realize it immediately; I stayed, taking notes and wondering why the pages in my book didn't match what the professor had written on the blackboard." He chuckled lightly at the memory.

"So what should I do?" Tony wanted to know.

"Ah yes. Well, Anthony, your constant hunger indicates that your metabolism needs to be reprogrammed."

"How?"

"It's quite simple. Pick a set of mealtimes and stick with them. After a week or so, everything should straighten itself out. I know you're fond of snacking between meals, but I must warn you not to do so; it is highly counterproductive."

"Thanks, Duck," said Tony. He started to leave. "Have a good night."

"Do the same, Anthony." said Ducky.

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It had been three days since Tony had gone to Ducky and, so far, following his advice was proving to be easier said than done. Tony had cracked on the first day and gotten himself a Ghiradelli chocolate bar from the vending machine while waiting for dinnertime. This morning, Tony had overslept and was forced to sacrifice breakfast so he wouldn't be late for work.

Tony glanced at the clock hanging above the entrance to the bullpen. 1100 hours. He could feel a migraine pounding in his temples as he stared at the mountain of paperwork on his desk. The team was investigating the murder of a Navy ensign, who had turned out to have no shortage of enemies on his ship; they had spent the past two days interviewing over thirty people the ensign had recently written up and those thirty were just the beginning. Those questioned so far had stated that they had an axe to grind with the victim and most admitted that they would've taken pleasure in killing him. Solving this case wasn't going to be easy.

McGee, sifting through his own stack of Navy personnel files, suddenly stopped. He let out a sigh, opened one of his desk drawers, and extracted a paper bag from its depths. Tony watched as McGee began to pull things out of the bag: a bottle of water, an apple, a little white box that probably contained a cupcake (Tony thought McGee would've sworn off cupcakes after the incident with Abby a few weeks back), and a turkey-ham-and-Swiss sandwich.

Tony sighed too. It seemed like his self-imposed lunchtime of 1230 hours would never arrive. He took a few large gulps of bottled water and made an unpleasant discovery several minutes later: Drinking water on a completely empty stomach somehow left him feeling even hungrier. Tony found himself unable to stifle a groan as his stomach growled loudly.

"Something wrong, Tony?" McGee asked around the first bite of his sandwich.

"What is usually wrong with Tony?" Ziva said as she typed interview notes into her computer. "He is...what is the expression...starving like a Martian."

"I think you mean 'starvin' like Marvin'," McGee corrected.

"Marvin is the cartoon Martian who wears a funny helmet, yes?" asked Ziva.

"Uh-huh," said Tony, rubbing his temples to ease his headache. He paused. "Wait a minute, Ziva, you watch Looney Tunes?" It was hard to picture the former Mossad assassin watching cartoons.

"Yes." Ziva confirmed. "It relaxes me when I cannot sleep." She turned to McGee. "And since the Martian is named Marvin, I believe that I am correct in saying that Tony is starving like a Martian."

Oddly, neither man seemed to have any argument against this logic. Of course, the fact that Tony's head was pounding too much for him to think straight and McGee was completely absorbed in eating his lunch may have been the reason for their silence.

Ziva finished typing the last of her interview notes and saved the file. She stood up, pulled on her jacket, and walked over to Tony's desk.

"I am going out for food. Would you like me to bring back some lunch for you, my little Martian?" she asked.

"Yeah, Ziva, thanks," said Tony, smiling and handing her ten dollars. It wasn't even 1130 yet and Tony knew following Ducky's advice would help him feel much better in the long run, but another lapse couldn't hurt.

"McGee! DiNozzo!" Gibbs' voice rang through the bullpen. "Another of the ensign's former crew members is here. I need you two to interrogate him. McGee, you're the good cop. Tony, you're the bad cop."

Perfect. Tony didn't think he could've handled playing the role of good cop the way he was currently feeling.

By the time Tony emerged from the interrogation room, his headache had turned to dizziness and his stomach had started to hurt, but he was proud of himself for getting the sailor to talk. He entered the bullpen and saw something wrapped in wax paper and a cup with a straw waiting on his desk. Tony peeled back the paper and discovered a meatball sandwich. He sat at his desk and eagerly bit into it; the sandwich was still warm. He glanced up at the clock. 1230 hours...perfect timing.

**THE END**


End file.
